Notes From A Burning House

Merton tells me Louis Massignon described helicopters as grasshoppers of the apocalypse.  To me they are gigantic dragonflies that come roaring from the east and draw spirals across the neighborhood sky.  One night this week, the black dragonfly flew so low over the Zen Center the windows of my room rattled and I woke up thinking there was gunfire outside.  The dragonfly moved back and forth over Cochran and Cloverdale, the police training their searchlights into our yards.  I heard some rustling in the alleyway by my north-facing window and imagined it was a fugitive for a moment; then I saw the possum ambling, unperturbed, toward the front garden. 

Eventually the LAPD withdrew the whirlybird and its insane racket that drowns out awareness itself.  At 3:00 am, I was woken up again by the sound of coughing.  It was the homeless man who sometimes curls up near our garden wall.  His head was only a few feet away, with a window screen and a bamboo plant between his rest and mine. 

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Thus far, after every performance of XXX Love Act, we have been staying late and enjoying cold beer.  We also have had triplesec on hand, as it rhymes so closely with our play’s title.  One night, in compensation for the actresses who go out and strip every night in service to the storyline, the men involved in the production are called upon to return the favor.  The producer goes first, and I snag the prop money from backstage so we can tip him as he does a vaguely embarrassed striptease.  Two dances and as many beers later, he and I are doing a duet, and by the time we have removed each other’s belts the ladies are rolling about with mirth.  Gilbert, on the other hand, is fearless; he wiggles and thrusts like the shadow of a Chippendale dancer.   We boogie and strip to Led Zeppelin playing “When The Levee Breaks.” 

Finally leaving the theatre in the wee hours, the night glistens like a gigantic eye, and I can breathe all the way down through my feet.

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My favorite hat is a brown suede cap.  When I wear it and a bow tie at the same time, I cannot resist saying, “Paper, mister?”  It has haunting old inscriptions written inside it.  One in black ink, almost completely erased, says, “I hope we meet again.”  Larger, and in red, the words “I love you,” blotchy and faded. 

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Starbucks needs me to sign a release for a short commentary they plan to print on their coffee cups next year.  They ask for a very short bio and I go into “bio freeze.”  Account for myself in a few italicized words?  Suddenly I have no idea what I am.  I write: God thought it would be funny to play blues on a ukulele.  Three strums, and Algernon appeared.  Useless to them, but it’s the best I can do.

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